Sense
by FieryxEyes731
Summary: Pity is her addiction, and today he’s just the capsule full of it sliding helplessly down her throat. Chase's observations about Cameron, one chapter per sense, end of S3. Now complete.
1. Stare

**Disclaimer: Never have, do not, never will, own House M.D.**

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He always stares at her. When she's not looking, when no one's looking, he stares. He watches her carefully, tries to get a good read on her. He studies her every action, her every move, and many times he questions everything he's ever learned about her.

Some people are creatures of habit, but not Cameron. She's constantly changing, whether for better or worse he's not really sure. Some things she regrets, others not so much. But she constantly questions herself, her own insecurities creating a ripple effect to everyone around her.

Or maybe it's just him.

He tries to build a relationship with her, and not even a romantic one at that. He's alone, she's alone, and perhaps if they were at least friends it'd be a little easier to cope with the bitter empty lives they each lead. But she turns him down again and again and he wants to scream out that he's not trying to get in bed with her. Except in reality, a bit of him is.

She calls him over one night and before he knows it their limbs are tangled and exposed in her bed and she's screaming his name and the rest of the world has melted away into a swirl of tears and blood on the floor. But she's high, it's all fake, and he knows it.

He says it shouldn't happen again, because if it does they've failed before they've even begun. No real relationship can start like that. He wants friendship turned companionship turned unity for eternity with an innocent beginning and a fairy tale ending. Not drug-induced sex and resented remorse.

But it does happen again. And again and again many times after. She offers him exactly what he's been shying away from and he accepts because that's all he knows how to do.

He feels lost in this world, even though she tries to guide him. He realizes that thorough all this he hardly knows her and their intimacy is in actuality distancing. He works up the nerve to ask for what he wants and finds himself more lost and alone than before. But still, he stares. He observes everything about her and she never fails to surprise him. He wonders how a woman so ethical and opinionated and with such strong morals is so emotionless toward him. It hurts him, yet he's fascinated by her, his gaze magnetic to her shadowed persona.

He figures House has noticed, but he's never been good at hiding things from him and he was bound to find out anyway. He desperately begs God, though, that Cameron hasn't noticed his growing obsession with her. She'd confront him, no doubt, and the thought sends shivers up his spine, ending with shots of anxiety shooting to his mind. If only this could stop, if only she could stop, if only…

Her hair flows gracefully, cascades over her shoulders and draws his attention no matter what the color or style. Her small but powerful build commands so surely and revokes memories of times of less defense, less distance, less emotional residue. Her face is easiest to read, but hard to watch without suspicion. And her eyes, his true downfall. They manipulate him; seduce him like no body can. And yet, they're cold. They hide from him, barely any contact from the bitter emeralds to the cloudy skies. He wishes, wishes they would look at him, wishes she would look at him. Maybe if she did he would stand a chance.

He's practically perfected the art of observing her. Casual glances between cases, hard stares during differentials, and simply absorbing her presence when she's unaware. He watches from the shadows, how and when and why she does what she does. The way she treats patients. The way she treats coworkers. The way she treats herself. The way she treats him.

He can now read her body language fluently, but sometimes wishes he couldn't. He sees her hold herself higher, stiffer, around patients and their families, as if to dare them to challenger her as a doctor. They think she's too pretty, too young, too dumb. He knows they're wrong. She's beautiful, wise beyond her years, and quite the intellect. He pities her for having to prove this to every patient, every person.

She folds her arms when she speaks to Foreman, because he thinks too highly of himself and his ideas and she needs to constantly defend herself. He aches with sorrow for her, no one believes her, no one trusts her, only him. At least when they were sleeping together he had a reason to support her, now there was none except his growing passion inside. She can support herself and she can do it well, and the more she does the more burdensome and useless he feels.

She acts desperately for House, pleading him with large gestures for his approval. She throws her arms out, throws herself out. She claims not to care for him anymore, but her actions contradict her words. As much as he trusts what she says, he knows what she does, too. He clings to one strand of faulty and undeserving trust that this time, she's not lying.

Around him, she freezes up. He makes her nervous and he knows it, except he's also too nervous to act on it. She's tense around him, muscles strain to stir and lungs fight to fill. And he sees this when he looks as her, and crumbles because he scares her. And she scares him too, only he never sees her even threaten to break. He can tell what kind of a night she's had or what kind of a night she will have. He sees extra concealer under her eyes for as long as he lets himself stare and knows in the pit of his stomach, the cracks of his heart, that she's been thinking about, regretting, missing, her husband. He sees he eyes dart feverishly across a file and knows she's gotten much needed rest in hopes of the better tomorrow that's long overdue; that he knows will never come. She dares to hope, to dream, though, and he respects her for that. He just doesn't share the same freedom.

He studies the perfect creases in her clothes daily. She makes such an effort to look more professional, more commanding, when House shows up late in jeans and a t-shirt, with uncombed hair, and perhaps the stench of stale alcohol that often eases pain for them all, even if only temporarily.

He recalls her skin, her body, herself, laid in front of him asking to be carefully studied. Every curve, every muscle, every bone, every scar, every unique mark that makes her so interesting from the outside in. She's beautiful in every manner, and he clearly replays every tender memory of her exposed and open, when he thought he was getting her to open up inside too. He was wrong, and he pushes away the scene repeating over and over subconsciously. He can't think about that anymore, he feels like he's violating her thought he wouldn't mind if she were doing it to him. The pain is still so fresh, the moments so vivid, he watches again and again, peeling the band-aid off slowly. It hurts like hell.

The truth is, she always tries and it's always too hard. She begs for acceptance when even she can't come to terms with herself. Perhaps if she looks a little harder, and maybe stares for a bit too, she'll realize that she's already been accepted.

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**AN: This is the start to a 5 chapter fic, one chapter for each sense. As it goes on, more plot develops, but it will still be told mainly like this. Set around the whole 'it's tuesday' phase. So let me know what you think. Specifics are great for what you liked and hated both, all questions, comments, and suggestions are welcome.  
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	2. Scent

**AN: Sorry this took so long, but this sense was a rather hard one to get out an entire chapter about. It's a bit shorter but still passes 1,000 words. Enjoy!**

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Cameron's scent is wonderful. It's unique and tangy and addictive. Extremely addictive. If Chase can't already identify her arrival each morning in any other means, he recognizes the aroma. Flowers. Citrus. Seduction. 

He remembers tumbling in bed with her, sheets enveloping raw flesh, raw actions, raw emotions. He remembers the scent of her breath, her hair, her body. Strawberries and cinnamon and broken crimson hearts. So vivid, so real in that world, their world, of fantasy. He shakes his head. A memory is, after all, just a memory.

But memories don't just up and leave like she does. History is best forgotten. History is hard to forget. She places a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He inhales deeply, wondering if he imagines it smelling better because she's made it.

He realizes how many scents remind him of Cameron. And if she went away, would she take these with her, give them away again? Everywhere he turns, his entire world, he can _smell_ her in it, in everything. He wonders why it isn't more, why they aren't more.

Chase sips his coffee, filling his mouth, his throat, his lungs, with a burning sensation he knows has nothing to do with the temperature.

"You okay? You look tired."

He wonders if she's sincere, but he can't very well be sincere back to her. "'M fine. Didn't really sleep much." That is part of it, at least.

His thoughts drift again, to last night, to every night. Tossing and turning restlessly, reminding him of when she'd be there. He smells her shampoo embedded into her pillow, or the pillow she'd use anyway. He can't get rid of it and he can't stand it either. But almost every morning he wakes to his face flushed and buried into a little bit of her left behind.

"Why not? We went home early enough."

"Huh? Oh." He remembers they've been talking and tries to fill the gap of silence outside and the gap of emptiness inside with another swig of coffee. "Dunno. Got lots on my mind, I guess." He immediately wishes he hadn't gone there. The only thing he had was work, and she knew there was no case to swarm his brain with unsolved nuisances.

"Oh." She forces her voice to sound casual, but her eyes are probing him for answers that he can't give. He looks away, ashamed. She places her own mug on the table a little too ruthlessly and walks out, leaving strawberries, roses, and untrustworthiness in the air.

The fragrance of the hospital reminds him of Cameron. The decaying stench of debate, the overwhelming power of sterilizer, the pristine perfection of clean white lab coats that seem so simple for such a complex job, world. He can't inhale these without inhaling her. He pleads that it won't haunt him forever, she won't haunt him forever, but his gut knows that she will. He wants to erase his memory of her, of ever scent she reminds him of. But he also wants, more, to wrap her in his arms and breathe her in and never let her go.

He imagines being so close to her, and he twitches his nose. She's here again. She's driving him crazy. She sits down next to him and he's doing all he can to not jump up, jump her. She smells like pomegranates and soapsuds and a candlelit dinner for one.

She controls him so easily. She slept with him. She said she'd least likely fall in love with him. He slept with her. He asks her out, casually, not a date, not a date. She declines politely. She declines rudely. But sometimes she accepts, and he wonders what she really wants from him.

They sit casually, the bar scene, the dinner scene, the man and woman together. But they're not. They're the least likely couple. They chat and he feels almost like they're friends, a feeling he hasn't had in a while. But it ends when they pay, leave, and she coldly refuses his next invitation.

He goes home, sometimes happy, sometimes dejected, always alone. He busies himself like normal people do. He pays bills, he watches TV, he wakes with his face in her pillow, again and again.

He really has to, needs to, break the cycle. It hurts too much to keep this up. She's killing him, but she has no idea. Ironic really, how the one who needs to fix people is breaking him, shattering him.

It's said that it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. Well, he lost what he never had and he still likes her, loves her. Except if he didn't love her now and if he never had, then things would be a whole lot less intricately woven and his world wouldn't reek of regret, of empty chairs across the table, of Cameron.

He thinks back. How having sex smelled like making love. Better than it was. How it was beautiful. How it was mind-blowing. How it is over.

The rooms he can't go in now haunt him. The sleep lab, the closets, even his own room is unbearable at times. Her scent, their scent, still lingers. And maybe he's the only one who can smell it, but the reality of the mess in his head is maddening.

She leaves. She's efficient with time. She doesn't spend too much anywhere, with anyone. She's there, she isn't. And any chance he had of evolving the two of them into one pair when she was with him is gone. He missed it. He misses her.

He gets up and walks out of the room too. He leaves, he's done for today. Screw House, screw work. And he drives past her place on purpose, and swears as he passes that he detects a hint of honey, brown sugar, and something stronger and more jarring that he can't quite identify in the air.

And right then and there, he decides that this has got to end. He's going to do whatever he can to get her, to make the two of them one.

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**AN: Finally, the plot. Okay, so I didn't like this one as much as the first one, but I'd love to know what you thought. Thanks to all who reviewed, I was ****thoroughly ****pleased. Let me know specifically what you loved/hated; style reviews and constructive ****criticism ****especially welcome! Hope you liked it!  
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	3. Listen

**AN: Thanks for putting up with the time it takes for me to update, I hope to make it up to you with this chapter, which is so far the longest. Thanks to all of my reviewers, you guys are the best, ever. Hope you like it!**

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"It's Tuesday." 

He thinks, knows, she has a beautiful voice. Her tone is so eloquent, her words so smooth. Harsh sometimes, but they flow well. He could listen to her talk to him for hours, if only she would.

He loves to hear her voice ringing in his ears. Sometimes they chat casually and he enjoys that they can now, but once a week, one small moment of awkward lips that can't seem to make their point, he says how he really feels. He has a distinct feeling she doesn't really love to hear his voice much.

"It's Tuesday."

He's not sure how much longer he can keep this up. It seemed like a good idea at the start, but now he doubts it, doubts himself. He tells her that he'll do it every Tuesday, though. But it's a weary process, mentally, emotionally. The rejection hurts, the wound that longs to close is torn open week after week, Tuesday after Tuesday, rejection after rejection. It's sure to leave a scar. Sometimes promises are better if unsaid. Sometimes saying them is the only way to keep them.

But maybe, just a sliver of light in this dark world, maybe she looks forward to Tuesdays. But he's not sure, he's never sure. But he's stubborn and stupid and sincere, and he's not going to give this up.

"It's Tuesday."

He loves it when he has her attention. When her forehead creases during a difficult case. When she smiles and cocks her head slightly at his innocent small talk. Sometimes she even laughs, and it's those sometimes that keep the world from breaking its path and losing itself in infinite space and time. It makes this whole mix of desperation and hate and need that is life, worth living.

He's willing to bet she has a stunning singing voice, too. The voice of an angel. Perhaps God's already reserved her a place in his choir up there.

"It's Tuesday."

Or maybe not.

She communicates with her words in the same way as her actions. She's overly sensitive with patients. She's defensive around Foreman. She's frantic and desperate around House.

Wilson seems to soften her a bit. Her voice is soothed, perhaps because they're so similar. Neither have had a past worth keeping photo albums for, and it seems that they bond over what they lack.

Cameron can be cold around Cuddy. Her tone shifts to something so unnatural for her, almost challenging. It's so strange, too strange, and Chase feels he should leave the room because Cameron's showing a side that he shouldn't see, doesn't want to see, can't bear to watch or to draw his eyes away from. If Cuddy is an enemy, who the hell isn't? If Cuddy is an enemy, what does that make him?

"It's Tuesday."

She used to joke with him more, flirt more, when they were publicly sharing an intimate act. But now the threat of Tuesday hangs heavily in the air and she can't afford to risk anything but professionalism around him. He misses it, too, misses her. They talk doctor to each other, and he's been diagnosed with obsession; they both know it. But they keep up the casual charade and ignore what their guts, their lips, their hearts are screaming at them to do.

But maybe it's all false hope. Maybe there's so much silence between them loud enough to break the thick glass walls because she's telling the truth. She doesn't want this. It seems like even fate doesn't want this.

Only, when he talks, sometimes she listens. And it seems to be genuine, too. It's Cameron's nature to care, to listen, even when she tells herself not to. And as much has he wants to hate her for being selfish, he knows she never puts herself first.

"It's Tuesday."

Other girls listen, they always have. He just can't figure out why the one he truly wants to won't accept him. He's gorgeous. He has an accent. He's a doctor. That's gotten him this far, but he's come to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection, and he's got to go somewhere. He's stuck in limbo, between stitching himself shut and pulling himself open again in hopes that he will heal.

But wounds don't always mend, and sometimes people die because even their blood refuses to stay with them. He's crushed now; bleeding on the pavement, and the world is melting away before he even hears the collision. But he's got nothing to lose from here and he didn't speed all this way just to leave with nothing.

"It's Tuesday."

She tells patients they're dying because she's the best at it. She sounds like she cares. She does care. He listens from the forgotten corners of the room that seem to disappear as their worlds get smaller, as their bodies decay. He hears every ounce of compassion and sorrow and mourning that's so appropriate, so private. She opens herself to people who are leaving soon, and he can't help but invade. She's beautiful, in a tragic sort of way. And while her voice may waver and may stop altogether, it still calms him more than anything that's ever reached his ears before. When he's dying, he decides, he wants Cameron to break the news. He wants to die in peace and serenity. He wants to die with her there.

"It's Tuesday."

She's the most caring person he knows, so why doesn't she care about him? He wishes things would go back to normal, but then he remembers nothing is normal with Cameron.

He's bleeding again, and his fingers don't know how to fix it. His mind is murky and thoughts can develop and his muscles forget how to move. She has to save him; she's the only one who can. She has to listen. One is the loneliest number, but in his opinion zero seems much more alone and he's already halfway there. _Listen._

"You're like House, you know?"

"What?" She spins around defensively, and he's finally has her attention.

"You heard me." He takes notice of the certainty in his voice that causes him pain from faking it so well.

"How so?" She sounds so angry, so offended, so _endearing_.

"Think about it. You wouldn't leave him alone until you went on a date with him. He kept turning you down, again and again. You had to quit to get a date." He's pieced it all together before, but his mind's reacting too slow to figure out he shouldn't be saying this out loud, no matter how true it is. He's showing her how bitter she is, how much she's made him suffer the same way she once did. It's almost cruel on his part, drawing on a failure of her past she tries to put behind her. But as cold as it is, it fits so well.

"Does that make you me, then?" He thinks he catches an amused shimmer in her eyes, but it's gone before he can bring his mind, himself, into focus.

"Do I have to quit?" _It's Tuesday._

"What are you talking about, Chase?" He pisses her off now and she gets ready to walk away, her pitch turns icy, but he still holds her attention.

"Will you go out with me? Or do I have to quit for you to say yes?" His eyes are blank, but his heart is pounding out more blood than he's got; it's spreading down the street, rushing down the drains…

"Chase, c'mon."_ It's Tuesday._

No, he came this far, watched for so long, tried so hard; she's the only one who can save him. "I mean it." And there's something about his voice that's gone a bit raspy that convinces her it's practically a matter of life and death. Maybe it is.

He watches, waits. He hears her staggered breathing and her feet shuffle uncomfortably and an image of her screaming his name in her bed freezes in his mind. God, she was loud. There's perspiration flowing from every pore now and he hopes his face isn't as readable as hers is as he wipes his palms on the sides of his pants.

_Tuesday._

"Fine."

His hand flies to his silky hair that's draped across his face. He's shocked that she actually gave in. He catches himself before double-checking if she knows what she's getting herself into. He stands thunderstruck; she's finally noticed his broken, useless body with life draining on to the street. Useless without her to fix him, save him. _Help. Listen._

"One date is all I'm committing to. One."

"Okay," he manages to push out. He has one chance to live, one chance: do or die. "How's Tuesday for you?"

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**AN: So, how'd you like it? More reviews equal faster updates, so please, review!**


	4. Taste

**AN: So sorry this took so long, I had a poll in another fic, and apparently that's not allowed. So I couldn't post anything for a few days, but I got it back about a half an hour ago. I want to thank all of my reviewers; I can't believe how many reviews I keep getting! You're the best ever, another thanks to those who review multiple times. Hope you like it!**

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The taste of toothpaste burns his mouth as he sits stiff and nervous on the couch, his closed door staring back at him. There's a tense knot in his stomach and he wonders if she ever planned on showing up to begin with. He pulls out the Tic-Tacs from his pocket and pops one in his mouth with another sullen glance at the door. He's grown to like them, or obsess over them really, for a few years now. The tingling sensation, the fresh taste, the smooth curve of the pill-shaped capsule, all remind him of Cameron.

And suddenly there's a knock at the door and his knot's exploded into a million parasites gnawing at his insides. Before he knows it, she's standing inches away with a slightly forced look of excitement splashed on her face. He wants to tell her that she's beautiful, that he's never seen anything more beautiful, and he never will; that she's perfect.

But she underestimates herself and would never take it for what it's worth, even though it's so true that it hurts. The flavor of those words burn his tongue like hot sauce so strong that water alone can't wash away, and he needs to spit them out, but all that comes is a "Hey. You look nice."

The ride to the restaurant is awkward, but he'd expected it to be. He's trying to get rid of the sharp taste left on his tongue of what he wishes he could cry out to her, she's trying to get rid of the savory taste left on her tongue from the time he was last there.

He drives a little too quickly. The air is drizzled with unspoken words that can only be guessed at. Plus he figures he's already crashed and the sole thing different about this time is that she'd crash with him. Only, through his sense of logic that's failed him many times before, at least then she'd notice his corpse spilling itself everywhere. Maybe his blood would fill her mouth, her veins, and pump through her heart, making him impossible to forget.

They sit at a restaurant too fancy for either of them, but neither feels comfortable saying it. The conversation is forced, and he can tell she's uncomfortable. Her face changes; her eyes squint, her lips thin, her nose wrinkles. He knows this look too well; she uses it often, usually on Tuesdays.

The steak is dry and he longs for something to quench his thirst more than the deep red wine can. If he spills it, will he bleed? If he breaks the glass, will he die?

It's too stiff and tight, they can only fake normalcy for so long. He tastes the sickening sweetness of what he wants to tell her but knows he can't. He tastes the now-forbidden seduction of her kisses. He tastes her; his tongue's already been tempted, tainted, with her taste, and now it won't, can't, stop searching for more.

He wonders if she tastes him now, too.

He finally cracks. He wants her to be his; he's imagined them together: old and domestic. But friendship comes first. It has to be clear. Plus he's run out of things to say, his mouth now tastes like mud and the only way to get rid of it is to spit it out.

"Cameron, can we just call this off?"

She looks stunned, and a bit hurt. Her mouth gapes open but she's at a loss for what to say. He watches her tongue quiver, remembers the taste and flavor of that quiver, that tongue. Her jerks himself out of his trance. He wants to grab her face and kiss her until the mud is gone, until her tongue swells, until it's permanently embedded with his taste like his is with hers.

"I mean…not exactly a date. We're just out to dinner. As friends."

A smile spreads across her soft rose lips. "I'd like that," she says softly.

And the mud disappears and the air is lighter. He cracks a joke about how people like them belong in a pub; they aren't this snobbish type. She smiles genuinely, and his eyes, his heart, his tongue all freeze up. But as the mood grows friendlier his mouth gets drier. He's thirsty, and he needs something, someone, more.

It's acceptable to talk about work now. He allows himself to fall into the easy conversation and half listen as his mind wanders. He remembers her taste, so tangy and salty and warm. He remembers her strong strawberry lip gloss smearing across his tongue as hands would roam, and he felt like these were the only times that God noticed him anymore.

She's a great kisser, he can't forget that. The way she made it sincere, the way she made nothing else matter, the way she left her mark, her taste, in his mouth that's impossible to get rid of. Tongue in tongue, she gave it all she had and just the kissing left him breathless. He didn't even need the sex at those points; he got enough pleasure out of her addictive fruity taste. He recalls how real it was, kissing her. How they'd seal the deal and it felt like the only real part of them.

And he's still dying. She's not helping; she's not coming back. He'll be crying and bleeding and thirsty forever. He needs help. He needs her. He feels time melt through his fingers and he's not sure if he even wants to hang on anymore.

They leave without dessert, and Chase pays because he's always been a gentleman and friendship doesn't stop that. Friendship. He remembers eating dark chocolate for the first time, long ago. How something that's supposed to be so sweet and soft is bitter and sharp. Friendship with Cameron. He's still dying. It's not enough.

He drives her to a small ice cream shop, because that's what friends do. They lick each other's cones and walk through parks and fulfill every cliché before the sun falls.

But it's already night, and he's hardly surprised when she orders one scoop of dark chocolate.

They sit on a bench and catch the drips of their ice creams before it's too late. And he buys strawberry, because if he can't have her anymore, then maybe this will satisfy the craving. Only now he's thirstier than before, and the oasis is so close.

But sometimes, it's only a mirage.

They return back to his place, and the drive is a little less awkward, only he still tastes the dry, unspoken feelings threatening to come spilling out at any instant. Strawberry. Water. Blood.

He invites her in and she accepts, because that's what friends do. He offers her a drink, because ice cream's always made him thirsty and maybe it does the same for her. He downs a tall glass of water quickly, except he's thirstier than before. The rusty flavor of blood fills his mouth and trickles slowly down his throat, into his lungs. Friends should notice friends dying, shouldn't they? He'd sure as hell notice if she was, but maybe he's a little past the stinging, abrupt line of friendship that's been drawn cleanly in front of them.

Maybe they'll watch TV, because friends do that. Or they could talk or stroll or hold each other for the pure element of companionship, of need. Friends do that, too. Sometimes friends even get married and never leave each other. But sometimes friends fall apart, because they were never strong enough to begin with and their intentions were always impure.

Can't a friend save a friend? He's dying. Soon. It's near, he can taste it; it's blood and strawberries and dark chocolate running through his fingers leaving a dark, bitter trail behind.

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**AN: Love it or hate it, let me know. Don't ruin your reputation as the best reviewers ever! Last chapter coming soon!  
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	5. Touch

AN: Sorry this took so long, I wanted to get it just perfect. It's also the longest chapter. And while I have your attention, I would like to ask you to R&R my songfic, In Pieces. I find it fits this ship really well and I'm pretty proud of it. It got deleted and reposted, so if you've already seen it, possibly (re)read, (re)review, and (re)favorite? Thanks. Also thanks to my reviewers, you are amazing and make this piece so much fun to write. I'm so sad it's over, but I hope you enjoy it!

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Her elbow accidentally brushes his. 

His body is convulsing alone in the street. No one is coming. No one is going to save him.

It's all too familiar, her touch. It's electric and scorching and soft. Their contact, whether unintended or knowingly wrong, makes his heart vibrate until it's ready to burst and bleed everywhere.

But really, it already is bleeding.

At least before the frenzied, familiar motions and sensations were with reason, no matter how poor the reason was. But now, now he's not allowed to press his skin to her skin, his lips to her lips, his desires to her desires; their bodies can no longer share the same rapid pulse as clothes are torn away and tossed carelessly, as their flesh collides together in hopes that their embrace will shatter the empty worlds they live in. There are endless consequences now, but it makes it all the more tempting. She's off limits. He's not.

She uses him and he's aware. He's always backed her up at work. He gave up his morals, his pride, his own needs, and slept with her. Now she's stealing his friendship. And as rare as it is for him to share such a thing, especially with someone so wrong, he wants this connection so much that he aches.

She's dipped her foot in the pool already, but the water was too cold. But he has to have this; he'll warm her and teach her to swim. Only she's too scared to try again. She fears serious relationships. He wants to take her hand and guide her through.

And he remembers holding her hand, fleetingly. How the world stopped spinning and the whole human race froze and they were the only things breathing, a brief breach, if only that, in the monotony of it all. Life seemed to flow between them, a shared second that formed a silent pact. Of what though, he wasn't, isn't, sure. But it ended too soon, just like everything does with Cameron.

Darkness creeps through his sparsely filled rooms and she shifts closer, their whole sides are touching and it feels like he's on fire. _Off limits. Out of bounds. Friends._

She grows drowsy as she relaxes into him and he figures she doesn't realize what she's doing. It means nothing. The news is on and the reporter's talking about an accident. Chase falls backwards out of reality and can't remember hearing the number of fatalities.

Maybe she's been there all along. Maybe she crashed into him. Maybe she did this to him and won't fix the mess she's made. Blood runs through his hair, pours cleanly from his veins, and maybe she's never really been there at all.

He feels weight on his shoulder and looks down to discover her head resting lightly on him. She is _here_, not _there._ Time passes; he's finding it more and more difficult to distinguish between his life and his death, and he's unsure as to which is real.

Another glance reveals that she's sleeping. He knows it's not pretend, Cameron would never consciously allow this to happen. After all, they're only friends.

He watches her chest rise and fall steadily for a minute or two, her serenity feeding his anxiety. He's overcome with desire, to touch, to feel, and he fights it off with blunt spears in his head. All he wants, really, is to gently rub her arm, stroke her in comfort without her recoiling at his touch, even if it is just as friends.

But this is Cameron, and Cameron doesn't need comfort and she doesn't need friends either. Pity is her addiction, and today he's just the capsule full of it sliding helplessly down her throat. He's failed to hold true to himself, and once again he becomes her play toy that will soon be tossed aside for something better.

But she's so flawless and soft and perfect. The smooth gentle curves that make up the big picture, the silky texture of her skin that his fingertips long to caress once more, the certainty and strength of her tongue, guiding them through the sinful motions that their bodies can't bring themselves to do on their own: he misses theses and he can't stop his thoughts from lingering on them, fading memories that seem like they're from someone else's life.

He can't let go. Every time the cool glass of the diagnostic table catches hold of his exposed flesh, he's reminded of her cold wind-blown cheeks that plead for warmth while her heart denies it. Every time he feels scalding coffee trickle down his throat his memory's jogged with her, because Cameron's the best at making coffee just like she's the best at breaking hearts.

His breathing is labored now and it's almost not worth it anymore. Life is slipping away, but his mind is muggy and stifling and he doesn't have the sense to hold on anymore. The end is near, and it's going to be a lonely one. He didn't really expect anything different, though.

Somewhere back at life, he realizes that in a few hours there will be another dreary sunrise to shine light on another draining day at a hospital.

Dreary sunrise: a new oxymoron. He wonders what she would say if he started using it. But Cameron in herself is practically an oxymoron; he remembers the wet-chill touch of contradictions on her skin, too strong to be washed away. She strikes a minor chord in him, and he's ensnared again, magnetically drawn to the bitter notes that she fills him with. Ironically, he's reminded of House, the man who got them into this, into each other.

He remembers back to when she left and returned, when she hugged Foreman and not him. He knows they felt nothing, no spark of life in the twists of confusion and new hope and tense anxiety that surrounded them. There was no true passion, no flitter of cliché romance, no fingers absorbing the warmth and companionship of each other, like there would have been with him. Maybe she didn't, doesn't, want that. Maybe she doesn't want him.

She stirs a bit and seems to wake herself up to examine the surreal situation amongst them.

"Sorry," she says softly, picking her head up slowly as her hairs tickle his cheek.

"'S fine," he replies sort of sadly. She always feels the need to apologize, but she's done nothing to hurt him this time, except maybe make him want her for himself a little more. He regrets the moments wasted, the moments they're wasting.

"Wh- what time is it?" A small smile plays about her lips, and he wants to grab her and kiss them before there's no time left.

But the moment passes as he looks around for his watch. It hurts. He can't have her.

"Chase?"

"Hmm?" he says as his life forms a pool at his feet that he knows he can't absorb.

"I've always considered us friends."

The answer is unexpected and comes like a slap across the face.

"What?" He spins around to face her full on, looking down toward her pleading green eyes and delicate empty fingers.

"You've always been my friend." It's sad, really, when coworkers turn to friends because there's not time to keep up with anyone else from the past, which is practically from a different lifetime, someone else's lifetime.

But friends are nothing really, and he believes she's simply being nice, being insincere. His dying lays a dark moody blanket across whatever he's got left, but he'd rather be cynical than naive; he'd rather expect the pain and blood and fear than never see it coming.

He doesn't know what to say, and his mouth opens and shuts stupidly. She's gently brushing her fingers across the back of his hand, and the simple connection between them feels so erotic, so wonderfully wrong.

She's lacing their fingers together now, but it's different from any other contact they've shared. He swears these are different fingers than the ones that would rake through his hair and furiously dig into him and peel away at his layers. These are uncertain, _caring._ But Cameron's never uncertain and she never cares for him, and he realizes abruptly that three years under House have taught him to mistrust everything, everyone.

She flicks her eyes up suddenly and they catch his before he can look away. She's pulling him in again, and maybe she's coming after all. She shows fear plainly in her eyes, and he feels her hand tremor slightly in his. He doesn't, can't, try to steady it. He's weak; he's trapped. And then she speaks and he recognizes these words as his own.

"I want more."

His memories swim in front of him, of her turning him away and him never relinquishing. But once he lost the desperation, she was able to see it too. Acceptance. Relationship. _Life._

She shifts and faces him head on, and everything is rapidly disappearing, but he's not scared, not dying. Then their gaze is broken and their lips collide; he's crashing with her but the impact is soft and she's here to save him. His eyes slide closed and she's softening now. Beauty blooms, but he doesn't need to see it to know it's there. The scent of lilies and new beginnings and faith linger in the air above them. Her delicate, unsure voice plays again and again in his mind. _I want more. I want more. _He tastes sweet innocence on her for the first time; it's the best thing he's ever tasted. And he feels her weight against him, her body melts into his as they fall in further and they form one pair and everything else is gone and sucked away and he doesn't care if it ever comes back.

She stitches shut his wounds and pushes the life and blood and emotion right back into him. She's been coming all along. She saves him.

And it doesn't matter which scene is real, because he's with her, his sense are satisfied with everything they've ever wanted; he's alive.

* * *

AN: Hope you liked it, and I also hope you'd like to set a record for reviews (your goal is nine this chapter). Let me know what your favorite sense was and how you feel this last one went. Personally, I liked this one and the first one best, and I'd love to know what you think. 

Keep an eye out for future stories, I've got plenty of ideas to crank out (with less cutesy endings). Thanks again, hope you liked it!


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